


Old Friends

by mariana_oconnor



Series: Tumblr fic [5]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Bittersweet, Finale? What Finale?, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-24 10:16:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13809099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariana_oconnor/pseuds/mariana_oconnor
Summary: Gwaine wakes up with a hangover and no memory of the last four years, but he keeps on adventuring until his bones start to creak. One day, as he's telling the village children tales, he meets someone he thinks he should know.





	Old Friends

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this quote from Eoin Macken:  
>  _'I don’t think Gwaine actually died, that’s my opinion on it… I think it’s more Percival had to go and do this thing and Gwaine was just unconscious, he would have woken up and everything was fine. I mean, obviously, he didn’t appear in the court after that so in my opinion he woke up with no memory and went on his travels again. He woke up with this really sore head and went ‘I have a hangover’ and has forgotten the last four years of being a knight or some bullshit then woke up and went for a drink.'_ which I saw on [this post](http://merlincastdaily.tumblr.com/post/154817336664/i-dont-think-gwaine-actually-died-thats-my).

And then one day, he’s in a tavern and he bumps into this guy: tall, skinny, dark hair, who looks at him like he’s seen a ghost, so Gwaine buys him a drink, because that’s what you do to people who look that upset. They talk for an evening, and the stranger says that he reminds of someone he knew once.

“Must be a terribly handsome fellow. And very charming too.” Gwaine says with an easy grin. There’s no pain in his expression, or grief.

“He would say so,” the stranger replies.

“Where is he now?” Gwaine asks.

“Here and there,” the stranger says. “I doubt he remembers me.”

“Can’t imagine anyone would forget you,” Gwaine tells him. “Maybe you should find him, say hi.”

“No,” the stranger says, abruptly, his face going a little blank and sad around the edges. “He’s happier now.”

“Have you asked him?”

“I don’t need to.”

When Gwaine wakes up from his drink the next morning, he finds the stranger paid for his board and hauled his drunken arse up to his bed, but he himself is gone. It’s another one of those strange encounters you have on the road, and though there’s no reason for it to do so, it sticks with him for many, many years.

He goes adventuring on his own, fighting monsters, winning hearts, cheating a little at dice in taverns (but only when the other side is cheating too, he’s just evening out the odds). He sees the knights of Camelot sometimes, hears tell of their queen, and shakes his head at their bright red coats as he steps aside to let their horses thunder past.

But, as it always does, time takes its toll on him. He slows down, he finds grey hairs and he’s forced to admit that his laughter lines have become crows feet and wrinkles. He settles down with money he has won from bounties and gaming: a cottage in a small village.

Winter makes his bones ache, and he curses the years that have made it so, reminding anyone that will listen that once he was as young as he still is handsome. He used to battle monsters and win tournaments. The children of the village love his tales, though none of them believe them. And Gwaine’s not so sure himself, anymore, what’s true and what’s fiction. His mind blurs sometimes and he has memories he doesn’t know are his. He finds himself telling stories he knows never happened, a glowing creature in a cave, strange things that feel familiar.

One day, the children are gathered round his feet once more, and he settles in his chair, his joints creak more than the wood as he spins his tale. He tells them about crossing a bridge into the Perilous Lands, about a sword that became a flower, and sitting in the dark hearing wyverns screech into the night.

A voice from the back says “That’s funny, I thought you said they were pheasants.”

He looks up to the doorway, and the children turn round as well to see a man standing there. It is the stranger from the tavern all those years ago, and he hasn’t aged a day. There is a name on Gwaine’s tongue as he looks at his face, but it slips out of his mind as soon as it comes, like so many things do these days.

“Whose story is this?” Gwaine asks. Age should at least bring the privilege of being able to tell his own tales.

“Sorry,” the man says with a grin that must be smothering a laugh. “I won’t interrupt, I swear.”

He lies, he interrupts at least twice more, but they get to the end of the story and the children scamper away back to their lives, to play at being wyverns and knights, but to live as farmers and labourers.

Gwaine doesn’t get up, he’s tired and comfortable where he is, so he just watches the stranger approach him and sit opposite with a sigh as weary as Gwaine feels.

“It’s been a long time, my friend,” the stranger says, and his smile is tinged with sadness this time.

“And yet you look the same,” Gwaine says. “That’s hardly fair now, when I’m…”

“As handsome and as charming as ever you were,” the man says with a mischievous grin. “You don’t look any different.”

“I don’t know if that’s an insult to how I was or a compliment to how I am now,” Gwaine says, but he smiles anyway.

“Both,” says the stranger. “I’m afraid I can’t… Time is complicated and I can’t reverse it.”

Gwaine shrugs.

“I’ve lived longer than I thought I would,” he says. “I’ve seen more than most and I think… I think I was good.”

“You are,” the man says, with more assurance than anyone who has only met him twice should have.

“I feel like I should know your name,” Gwaine tells him. “But I forget things these days. So many things.” He winces at a pain in his knee, an old injury that has never gone away, and then yawns. “I’m sorry, I’m not as lively as I once was. Can’t stay up all night talking.”

“You never could… you always overestimated your stamina.” Gwaine makes a noise of protest. “You’d swear you’d be up 'til dawn, then you’d be passed out drunk before the end of the night,” the stranger - M… something beginning with M, Gwaine thinks - says with a fond smile. “It’s alright. I’m comfortable where I am, and I can do the talking.”

“That’s good,” Gwaine says. “Gets a bit lonely sometimes, you know.”

“I know,” Merlin agrees.

“Merlin!” Gwaine says, though it comes out more as a whisper than the exclamation he intends. “You’re Merlin.”

“Yes,” Merlin says. “And you’re my friend.” Gwaine smiles, glad to have remembered the name. It feels important. “Rest, Gwaine, you’ve earned it. And this time I’ll tell you a story.”

Rest sounds like a wonderful idea, Gwaine thinks. He’s so tired, and the strength in his limbs is all but gone.

Merlin begins to speak, his voice low and soothing:

“Once there was a prince, who was a royal prat, and his hardworking servant, though the prince was pretending not to be a prince at the time. And they walked into a tavern…”

It sounds like a good story, Gwaine thinks, it’s a pity he’s falling asleep.

The fire is warm, and Merlin’s voice is soft as Gwaine’s eyes drift closed. It’s been a long day, but a good one and it’s nice to be able to rest.

He dreams of Camelot.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](https://mariana-oconnor.tumblr.com/post/154862322801/merlincastdaily-i-dont-think-gwaine-actually) on tumblr.


End file.
